Real
by Frustration At Its Finest
Summary: "There's a not so subtle ache that lounges in his heart for her, lethargic and heavy and oh so difficult to ignore. He does his best to dazzle, distract from the way he's quietly drowning in how much he adores her." Rated T for friskiness and emotions. If that's your thing, you've come to the right place.


AN: I do not own the song Real, that credit goes to Years and Years. I do not own Miraculous Ladybug, however I do adore the characters and like to borrow them from time to time. This is rated T just for friskiness and lots of emotions. Have fun kiddies.

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There's a not so subtle ache that lounges in his heart for her, lethargic and heavy and oh so difficult to ignore. He does his best to dazzle, distract from the way he's quietly drowning in how much he adores her. Calling it a crush would be sacrilege, offensive to a soul deep degree, though he can admit that he is regularly crushed due to his feelings for her. He'd like to think that he's resilient. Rejection isn't a stranger, and neither is loss, but somehow every time he sees her retreat, it's like she's snatched a piece of him to take with her.

He knows that she doesn't understand it. She isn't cruel or covetous. If she were, it might be easier to cope with. He could get mad, indignant, pretend that he deserves better and move on with his life.

But she is more than he could ever fathom deserving and she hardly even notices.

There is no little mantle where she keeps the pieces of him that she steals, no sloppily reassembled sorry excuse for part of a heart resting on her nightstand. There's merely a roll of her beautiful blue eyes, a dismissal of what she thinks are meaningless flirtations, and no matter what he does, no matter what he says, it would seem that he just can't quite convey to her that he is hopelessly in love with her.

The air pollution tonight seems to shine iridescent against the moon, sickly and sweet, toxicly beautiful. Nature is strange like that, he muses, stealing glances at the girl who's poised to snatch another little piece of him if he's not careful. The warm breeze carries the scent of commotion, the heady thump of music pulsing against the thick air, and he dares to look at her directly, careful to not be blinded by her. He can't help but flinch when he sees that she's already looking at him, almost expectantly, like she's waiting for him. But their patrol is over, they're only here to be sure that nothing goes awry at the party below, and he's just not sure what in the hell she could possibly be expecting of him now.

She smiles, small and sweet and silent, and he cracks like an ignored scab, bleeds emotion so easily that it's shameful. He asks her to dance with him, like a masochistic fool, and chokes on what's left of his heart when she agrees. Her wrists press to either side of his neck, and he tries to differentiate, which pulse belongs to him and which belongs to her, failing magnificently and deciding that maybe they're one in the same, the romantic in him insatiable and impossible to ignore.

Hands cautious, he places them on her lower back, palms and face burning burning _burning,_ and when she presses nearer, he's hardly equipped to keep up enough, clumsily looping his arms around her waist. Embracing a beam of sunlight would be less of a feat, but either would change him down to his atoms, wrack him with something so loudly intangible. If he could collect his love for her in buckets, keep it handy in his pockets to offer her at will, he would. But his love is something he could never adequately explain, and so he settles for hoping that she can feel it thrumming in his veins against her, wrapped around her, dedicated to protecting her, _always._

Her fingers card through his hair gently, and he's briefly thankful that her suit shields him from her bare touch, because he's not sure he would survive it. A cheek pressed to her wrist, his lips pressed to the pulse within it, he holds his breath and awaits his sentence. She is judge jury and executioner, and there would be no higher honor than being felled by her hands.

An ear presses against his chest, and he's _gone,_ so lost in her that he's unsure which way is up, the swirling giddiness of his little victory giving him a vicious case of vertigo. She reeks of vanilla and good intentions, and he holds her delicately, not because she's fragile, but because _he_ is, and anything more might shatter him.

He can feel the curve of her lips smiling through the front of his suit, and a crack fissures it's way through him, the feeling so familiar he almost doesn't notice it. A purr rumbles through his fractured chest, unbidden and unwelcome but undeniable all the same, and her arms slip around his torso like she _knows,_ like she's just trying to hold the pieces of him together now. He wishes she wouldn't worry so much, but also revels in her concern, basks in it like the sunlight she is. If he were stronger, he would leave now.

If he were stronger, he would never have been here to begin with.

But he's weak for her.

A hand smooths down one of his shoulder blades, and he shudders in her arms. She asks,

"What's wrong, Kitty?" and he melts for her because what else would he do?

"Simply wishing that we could stay like this, my Lady, that's all. I know you have places to be and people to see, though." Telling her that it's a honor to be the receiver of any of her time and attention is so tempting, but he thinks that such bare honesty might scare her away.

"I'm exactly where I want to be, Chat Noir. Don't tell me you've got other plans." It isn't a question, it's a statement, _a demand,_ and it sends a pleasant little shiver up his spine. His heart sputters, wheezes, rebuilds itself out of the hope that she's foolishly instilled within him and thunders away, beating beating beating against his rib cage like it's trying for a jailbreak, if only to tuck itself in her pocket and make itself at home there.

"Only a fool would make plans for anything other than the unexpected." He's not sure it makes any sense, but he thinks she understands when her arms squeeze a little tighter, her nose pressed to his collarbone now. She hums acknowledgement into his throat, and his lungs stop functioning long enough that she seems to attempt to prod them back into action by pressing a gentle kiss just below his left ear. She's on her toes to reach the spot, and if his brain weren't short circuiting he might have a clever little quip for her about her endearingly lacking stature.

But all he can manage is confused, _frustrated_ whine in the back of his throat, to which she replies by burying her face in the crook of his neck with a groan.

"I'm sorry I'm so difficult," she murmurs, her arms painfully tight around him.

"I'm not," he breathes, pressing a kiss to her crown.

"Are you sure?" she asks, and it sounds so absurd, he almost thinks all four ears are playing tricks on him.

He pulls away from her, just enough that she can see the sincerity in his eyes when he speaks. Her whine of protest is exquisite, emboldening him just enough that he can tell her,

"My Lady, there's a lot of things I'm really not sure of in my life, but you'll never be one of them."

Eyes shining so pure, even in all this pollution, this secondhand sunlight, she stares right into him, seeking something he knows she won't find. He is nothing if not genuine when it comes to his love for her, and she is free to do with it what she will. Though it may be preferable that she reciprocate, it certainly isn't necessary; either way, he'll remain her closest friend and ally until death, as long as she'll have him.

Trembling fingers reach for him, cradle his face so delicately, he thinks she might finally be afraid of shattering him, too. Her thumbs stroke his cheeks, just where his skin meets mask, and she says it like a prayer.

"You're the _only_ thing I'm sure of."

Her miraculous chirps, and he doesn't breathe. She's still perched on her toes, and he thinks of how her calves will burn later, thinks of how he wishes that he could smooth the soreness from them, kiss away the burn. He settles for crouching just enough that they're nose to nose, her breath sweet against his mouth, warm and pepperminty and _her._ He opens his mouth, "my Lady–" hardly escaping him before she's on him, her lips soft and so, so warm against his own. She presses her entire self to him, fingers buried in his hair, tugging, teasing, begging him to _follow her lead._

He wraps an arm around her waist and hoists her onto the brick railing of the rooftop, his other hand carefully undoing the ties in her hair, because god, he's always wanted to do that for as long as he can remember. She sighs against him, legs winding around his waist, and when his miraculous starts to sing, harmonizes with hers, she whispers "Stay," against his lips, not a question, but a statement, a _demand._

How could he ever refuse her?

There's a moment where they simply wait, foreheads pressed together, the urgency of their miraculous ringing clearly in their ears, their lips barely brushing, breath mingling between them. When the chirping stops, he can feel her lips curve into a shy smile, and he grins too as light envelops them both, burning away their alter egos and leaving only _them_.

"Those terrible puns in anatomy class gave you away. I have a bone to pick with you, Kitty."

He kisses Marinette because she is Marinette, because she is Ladybug, because she is her. He kisses her and she kisses him back, as himself, as Adrien, as the boy who was sure he'd never be enough and suddenly is more than enough for her. She holds him like he's something precious, something to be protected and loved, and just for now, he thinks he might believe that.

"I love you, Marinette," he breathes into a kiss, because it's true, and she has to know that.

"I love you too, Adrien," she smiles, and it's true. He knows it.


End file.
